


Neutrality

by days4daisy



Category: Dominion (TV), Supernatural
Genre: Angel Wings, Angelcest, Broken Wings, Crossover, Extra Treat, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Power Dynamics, dying grace
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-14
Packaged: 2018-09-20 18:09:54
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9504404
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/days4daisy/pseuds/days4daisy
Summary: “You need to be more careful, Michael.”





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tarlan](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tarlan/gifts).



> A little treat for you, Tarlan. I was so happy to see someone request this pairing :)
> 
> Takes place after Dominion 1x03. Castiel's situation is loosely based on Supernatural Season 10, but no spoilers.

Michael becomes aware.

He wakes to the ceiling of his perch; the top floor of the Stratosphere, stretched over his circular mattress. Vaguely, Michael recalls the rush through Vega’s emergency wing. A feverish stretch of days followed, as Empyrean steel boiled through his blood.

The doctors must have transported Michael once his condition stabilized. No matter how well-intentioned, humans lack the means to cure the ailments of angels. 

He runs curious fingers along the bandage on his side. Blood stains the white cloth, but Michael finds no wound beneath. The gash where Furiad’s blade struck home is gone.

“You need to be more careful, Michael.”

Michael reaches for his swords, but they are not where they should be. His sides are empty, as are the spaces beside his bed and beneath his pillow.

Metal clanks off marble tiled floors. His twin blades are tossed away like waste. Their dismissing hand belongs to someone Michael has not seen in a long time. “Castiel?”

His brother nods, eyes still as blue as the seas when Father made them. The oceans were Castiel’s first love, Michael remembers. Where Michael hungered for fire and steel, Castiel marveled at waves sweeping shores.

His clothes are strange; a black suit and blue striped tie. He's overstuffed as the most fastidious human practically begging for induction into House Whele. His hair is short and neatly set. But his eyes have not changed, or his small, meaningful smiles. Castiel shows him one now, a faint show of happiness. At Michael’s recovery? Or at this unexpected reunion?

It has been twenty-five years since Michael last saw his younger brother. No, longer. Their ranks frayed upon Father’s disappearance. Sides were chosen long before Gabriel declared open war on humanity.

But a few chose no side, fading into the silence of neutrality. Castiel was one of these. He was once second-in-command of Michael’s garrison. Once, so precious to him.

Michael touches the unblemished skin of his side. “Was this you?” he asks.

Castiel produces a single feather from his suit jacket. Black, its quill melted down like candle wax. Of course. The oil of the feather. One of few healing properties that can counteract the effects of Empyrean steel.

Michael frowns. “Your wings.”

“Your war is pointless,” Castiel remarks. “But you were not meant to die like that. So you didn't.”

Michael sits up higher, sheet pooling over his waist. He can’t help his sardonic smile. “After all you’ve seen, is this war still pointless to you, Cas?”

“Angels fighting angels is insane, Michael. You have to know that.” Castiel hunches in the bedside seat, fingers steepled between his knees.

Michael glowers. “And what of angels slaughtering humans?" he demands. "Father’s prized creations, many who have no means to defend themselves?”

“I’m not Gabriel,” Castiel reminds gently.

Always too loose with his tongue, Castiel. “What on earth are you wearing?” Michael mutters.

Castiel shrugs at the change in topic. “I usually wear it with a trench coat. It helps me blend in.”

“In a desert?”

Castiel ignores his retort. He rises to take in the view beyond Michael’s windows. They are one hundred stories above Vega, bustling with activity under the afternoon sun. After dark, the city will show its true seduction, lit up in colors and flashes of light. 

“This is the first time I’ve seen your city,” Castiel observes. “They don't like angels very much, do they?"

Michael tosses his unnecessary bandage to the nightstand. “What about my brother’s kingdom on the mountain?” he mutters. “Have you seen it?”

Castiel glances over his shoulder. “Gabriel is my brother too, Michael.”

His eyes warm with affection, but Michael does not share his humor. “He’s slaughtering Father’s children. He uses the Eightballs like cannon-fodder. He’s even learned to possess them.”

Castiel’s shoulders slump under his over-abundance of clothes. “Still so angry, Michael.”

“And you're still too quick to forgive,” Michael grumbles.

Castiel smiles sadly. “You're right.”

At a loss, Michae begins to pace. His long strides cross spotless marble tiles. Castiel’s attention remains on the view beyond the window. Vega’s population moves below as dictated by their rank and status. Mere specks of dust from this perch. How much smaller did they seem from above?

“You have my thanks,” Michael says. “But if you have no intention of joining my cause, we have little more to discuss, Castiel.”

Castiel nods. “You've always put your causes above family.”

It’s an easy shot, but an accurate one. Michael’s blood boils hotter. “Take that off."

The odd order earns Castiel’s curiosity. Bemused, he shrugs out of his jacket and drapes it across the back of his chair. 

When he stops, Michael’s eyes narrow. “Your wings, Castiel.”

For the first time since their reunion, his brother seems at a loss. The request makes his patience fall into doubt. “My wings are fine,” he says.

“You stole from them to help me,” Michael counters. “I have a right to see them.”

Castiel shakes his head. “My wings are my concern, not yours.”

Michael can’t help his chuckle. “Do you really think so little of me, brother?”

It’s the first time Michael notices how hurt he truly is. The years have worn on Castiel. Lines crease skin that was once boyishly smooth. Even his eyes, beautiful as ever, have dimmed in exhaustion.

Are the years wearing on Castiel, or is it his dying grace? Michael frowns. “You shouldn’t have done this for me.”

“It wasn’t your decision,” Castiel tells him, more forceful.

Castiel was one of the most loyal in Michael’s service. But he would not act if he disagreed with an order. Castiel's knack for disobedience often got him in trouble. But Michael coveted his strangeness above all but his own kin.

His presence reopens the chism that Michael has worked so hard to fill since the war began. A void that is echoed in Castiel’s gaze, empty of his usual emotion.

Castiel unlaces his garish blue necktie and unbuttons his shirt. His physical vessel has retained its quality; strong and clean, to Michael’s liking.

Michael frowns at the unfamiliar black script over his ribcage. Enochian. “Is that a ward?” he asks.

“Yes.”

“You’ve hidden yourself from us?”

“I’m not part of your war,” Castiel explains, as if this is enough.

Michael glares. “I need to be able to find you, Castiel.”

There’s no way of knowing when Castiel’s grace will burn itself out completely. What form will the end of this long affliction take? Will he lose his angelic form? Become human? Or will he cease to be entirely, blinking out like a doused flame?

Castiel breaks eye contact. “I don’t want you to find me,” he admits. “Or anyone.” It’s the most cruel thing he can say. Castiel sighs wearily. “There won’t be anything you can do.”

It’s not his choice to make, though. Michael is his commander, this mere twenty-five year defiance aside. Castiel is his second-in-command. Michael will be with him at the end. Castiel owes him this. Especially after this forced separation. Castiel _owes_ Michael. 

“Show me,” Michael says. He leaves no more room for discussion.

Castiel’s distress is obvious in the shake of the hands that unbutton his shirt. He places the garment into the seat beside Michael’s bed. Castiel looks at Michael again, a quiet plea for him to give up this request. Michael will not.

Head bowed, Castiel’s back arches. His wings appear; his dying wings. Stark white bone where proud plumes once fanned. Patches of feather and flesh remain, scabbed blood between them.

Castiel turns away, and Michael goes to him in alarm. Hands on his shoulders, ready to assist with any pain. But it isn’t physical hurt he sees reflected in Castiel’s expression. It’s shame. Disgust; at himself.

Castiel twists out from Michael’s hands. “You’ve seen them,” he mutters.

Michael remembers how wide and strong his wings once were. Michael delighted in grooming them, down ghosting between his fingers. On lazy mornings, he reveled in his brother’s contented sighs. This curse is too cruel for anyone to bear, but especially Castiel, who's always felt too much.

When Michael pulls Castiel close, he senses hesitation. Castiel is still proud, despite this affliction. But he relents, head bowing close to Michael's face. “Do they hurt?” Michael asks.

“Yes.”

Michael combs fingers through his hair. Castiel understands his unspoken command. His broken wings fold into his back. Castiel’s hiss is muffled against Michael’s shoulder. His expression shows pain, embarrassment, longing. And love, yes. Even after so much time. 

Michael lowers his head, but Castiel nods away before they find contact. His mouth trails down the flat of Michael’s throat. His hands shift to the small of Michael's back.

Michael takes his chin between thumb and forefinger. Even with each other, Michael is able to kiss him as intended. His knuckles trace Castiel's face, not bothering to hide his affection. Castiel snorts under him, amused and admonishing. A hint of the brother he remembers.

Michael takes command, urging Castiel back to the bed. Castiel sits as directed. His smile is small, a silent dare. Michael climbs onto him, relearning the way. Skin and human stubble. Hair, so soft. The curl of his ears and the lines of his neck.

Michael’s authority is in every touch. What he claims, he possesses completely. His wings expand, a black feathered canopy spanning the width of his bed. Castiel reaches for them, fingers lost in feathers. When attacked, each one sharpens, strong enough to deflect military firearms. But in the bedroom, they sift like spring leaves through Castiel’s hands. His chest rises and falls beneath Michael’s mouth. Michael finds his belt. His zipper follows, pants drawn down with a practiced pull.

Higher angels and archangels were gifted their own bodies upon their creation. This body is an extension of Castiel. Michael has missed its presence beneath his hands.

“We will find a cure, Castiel,” Michael promises. “There's still time.”

Castiel rolls his eyes. “Don’t talk about that now."

The sentiment does not please Michael, but it’s Castiel’s right. After all this time, he would also rather not drag out their bitterness. There will be time later, he hopes. 

For now, there is too much to remember. Too much to feel.

*The End*


End file.
